Successful Ventures
by Dreigiau
Summary: Mycroft Holmes attends all the right events, knows all the right people and wears a suit like a set of armour. If Sherlock is to be believed, he is also the British Government. In his free time, however, he drops the upper class persona and prefers a simple life. When his relationship with DI Lestrade takes a more intimate turn he is unsure of how to share this side of himself.
1. Chapter 1

The charity gathering was not a loud one, and if Mycroft Holmes were a religious man he would have thanked God for small mercies. As it was, he did his best to ignore the slight ache at the base of his skull, for it would only get worse if he acknowledged it, and focused on smiling and making the appropriate small talk.

"Mycroft?" The voice came from behind his right shoulder and he turned towards it, slipping a false smile that he knew looked genuine onto his face. The smile almost slipped as he looked at the speaker. He was familiar, his light grey hair and tired, kind face distinguishing features that Mycroft's mind tried desperately to place. He failed to do so, and immediately set to looking for clues. Dark smudges under the eyes; he worked hours that were not just long but also unpredictable. The hand which he had extended for Mycroft to shake was rough, callouses suggesting both physical work and extended periods of using an ill suited pen. Paperwork. Faded bruising peeked out from under the man's right shirt sleeve. He made no extra attempt to cover it, so was clearly not ashamed of its origins. A scuffle, then, possibly work related or perhaps from a free time activity. His physique suggested either an active job or a particular focus on keeping fit outside of work. His familiarity with Mycroft did not seem to be professional. Small holes in his jacket suggested places where badges badges had been pinned which could mean-

"It's Greg. You're Sherlock's brother, right?" A flash of concern crossed his face, apparently worried that he had wrongly identified Mycroft. In the politician's head 'Greg', 'Sherlock' and the look of concern all slotted neatly together and handed him a conclusion.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, how good to see you." The smile had become genuine, and Mycroft was not entirely sure why.

They made small talk for a few minutes before Greg excused himself, having seemingly caught sight of someone that he knew across the room. Mycroft returned to his conversations with politicians who were attempting to appear altruistic.

When he arrived home that evening, Mycroft made his way into his office. From a well hidden draw behind a false set of spines for Shakespeare's full works (the real set was kept on a bookshelf in his bedroom), he pulled out the notebook in which he kept the list of his reasons for deleting various pieces of information and people. He retained it for the rare occasion on which they were once again brought into his mind. He had not entirely deleted the Detective Inspector, and the job that he had done was frankly sub-standard.

The note was easy to find, listed on the last time he had had any contact with Greg. The date was the same as the last time that he had had to bail out Sherlock, before his brother had managed to get himself clean. The entry was written in red, underlined, and told Mycroft everything that he needed to know - from why the DI was only partially deleted to why it had been so badly done.

DI Lestrade – Attraction

Mycroft sighed, running a hand through his hair and slipping the notebook back into to place. At the time, between Sherlock and work, there had been no place in his life for the potential distraction. As he replaced the fake spines on the shelf he considered the situation. With John Watson's presence taken into account, and the change in his work pattern, the distraction would perhaps be one that he could fit into his schedule.

It was pissing down with rain, and Greg pulled his jacket in around him in an attempt to avoid too much of the water from getting inside as he stepped away from the safety and protection of Scotland Yard. He could barely see for the water in his eyes. Quite suddenly the rain falling directly on him stopped, though he could see it falling still a few centimetres in front of him. He glanced up, and above him the black material of an umbrella acted as protection from the deluge. The person holding the umbrella stood just behind him.

"Detective Inspector, would you care to join me for a coffee? I would like to have a few words pertaining to my brother and Doctor Watson." Greg nodded, grinning as he turned.

"If you plan to share that umbrella and take me somewhere dry with hot drinks, I'll talk about anything you like," he told Mycroft.

The coffee shop was small, locally run rather than a chain. It was warm, dry and smelled wonderfully of freshly ground coffee. It took Greg all of five seconds to decide that it was the best place that he had visited all day. His jacket, sodden from his brief amount of time without protection from the rain, was plucked from his hands as soon as he had managed to get out of it. Mycroft muttered something about it dripping on the carpet before hanging it up by the door, beside his umbrella. Once they were settled with their coffees, they took a moment to appreciate the warmth of the drinks before beginning their discussion.

"So, what did you want to know about Sherlock and John?" Greg asked.

"I worry about my brother, Detective Inspector Lestrade, almost constantly. Doctor Watson has refused to help in my attempts to keep an eye on Sherlock. I was hoping that you would be more amenable. I can recompense you for the trouble." Mycroft stirred his coffee as he spoke. Three rotations clockwise, one anti-clockwise, and repeat. Greg cocked his head slightly, gaze running over Mycroft's face in an attempt to read both his meaning and his intention. While it had never yet worked on a Holmes, his intuition for people was generally passable.

"First off, call me Greg. No use in using my job title, we both know who I am. Besides, I can't reply in kind, and I'm not calling you Mr. Holmes, okay?" The question was clearly rhetorical, but Mycroft replied regardless.

"Short for Gregory?" He waited for a nod of agreement from the police officer before he continued. "Very well, Gregory. I shall refer to you as requested."

"That's not as requested, but close enough. Second, John won't tell you a thing because he's loyal to a fault. He'll be good for Sherlock, that I'm sure of. Watch his back and make sure he eats on occasion, if nothing else." Greg took a long drag of his coffee, apparently considering his final point. "Third, that sounds an awful lot like bribery to me, Mycroft. I can keep you up to date on anything particularly stupid that Sherlock gets up to, sure. But I don't want your money for it, or anything else. I just want to help you keep the daft sod safe."

"Thank you, Gregory." Mycroft appeared entirely unsurprised by the reply, smiling in response. "It is good to know that my brother surrounds himself with those with his best interests at heart, even if he would not wish to know that it is the case."

They finished their coffee with small talk. Mycroft exhibited a surprisingly wide knowledge of music, and they discussed the merits of Queen, Meatloaf and Del Amitri before skirting around the topic of work and skimming over the barest details of family. They took their leave from each other an hour and a half after entering the shop with a warm handshake.

"You look bored out of your skull." Mycroft absolutely did not startle as Greg's voice came, unexpected, from just behind him.

"Gregory, I did not realise that you frequented these events," he replied smoothly.

"Could say the same about you. Figured you were here for work reasons the first time. Not I'm not so sure."

"While such events are indeed useful for the sake of networking, I am also present for more personal reasons. The cause which this charity represents is somewhat dear to me." Something in Greg's expression softened, and he nodded.

"Yeah, it is a good one. So I suppose you're not interested in ducking out to go and get some coffee?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow, considering the police officer for a moment.

"I shall require ten minutes to say my farewells."

"I'll be waiting."

They ended up in the same coffee shop as the previous time. Their conversation did not touch upon the subject of Sherlock even once.

"You know, I always wondered why you stopped showing up at crime scenes after those first few times," Greg said, gesturing vaguely. "Thought maybe you were less worried about Sherlock, once he'd gotten himself clean. Then I thought maybe it was me. I didn't mean to be rude, you know, that last time you came by. I know I snapped about you Holmes brothers sticking your noses in, but-"

"But you had recently discovered that your now ex-wife was having an affair. Sherlock informed you, no doubt in his usual, tactless manner," Mycroft finished for him.

"Yeah, that," Greg agreed.

"Rest assured, Gregory, my absence had nothing to do with that. I have simply been very busy with work."

Greg raised an eyebrow over his coffee mug as he took a sip. It was a weak lie, the incident in question had taken place well over two years previously. But the grey-haired man seemed to take the hint, switching the subject to the charity gathering which they had escaped from. Mycroft watched him speak, making the appropriate sounds of agreement as he did so. In the corner of his mind, the word 'attraction' painted itself in large, red letters. In an earlier burst of conversation Greg had drawn a parallel between his ex-wife and a boyfriend from his early twenties. He had made his sexuality clear happily and freely, and Mycroft knew that all he had to do was ask if the other man would be interested in a proper date. A rejection would likely not ruin the fledgling friendship, but rather make it clear where they both stood on the matter. He started as he realised that Greg was watching him, waiting for a reply to a question that he had missed.

"Pardon?"

"Somewhere else, were you?" Greg asked with a grin. "I asked what you do in your free time, outside of work and social charity stuff."

"I keep an eye on Sherlock, mostly," Mycroft replied. "And you?"

"I bike. Used to race some when I was a teen, now I find it's the best way to get around London. Helps keep me fit, too."

"Clearly a successful venture." The words were out before Mycroft could consider them, and he was horrified as they dangled in the air between the two men. Greg was studying his face closely, looking for some sign of the exact meaning behind words. He smiled, pleased amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes.

"Always good to hear." There had been a distinct shift in the atmosphere of the small booth in which they were sat, and Mycroft was relatively certain that the comment had been taken in a most agreeable fashion. "So, this personal interest in our little charity events, care to elaborate?" Greg asked, slipping easily back into the casual flow of their earlier conversation.

"Quite the tale, I'm afraid. Best suited to a longer lived setting," Mycroft replied, having drained the last of his coffee. "What about your interest?"

"I started going because the Yard always chipped together for a ticket. They figured I scrubbed up well enough, and wouldn't put my foot in it too much. It's important for the Met to show we're behind this sort of thing. Families of violent crime victims are hit hard, whether the victim survives or not. It's important that there's help available for them."

They parted shortly afterwards with another warm handshake. Mycroft noted that it was held for rather longer than was strictly necessary. He took it as the sign which he had been looking for

"Well, I'll see you around, Mycroft. Best of luck with your Sherlock watching. I know the git makes it difficult." The slur against Mycroft's younger sibling was said with a fond tone, belying the harsh wording.

"And I hope he continues to make himself useful to you, Gregory. Perhaps our next meeting will be suitable for the telling of my involvement with our shared charity. I posses some small skill in culinary matters, should you be free of an evening." Greg raised an eyebrow, once again considering Mycroft in a way which was clearly searching for the meaning behind his words.

"You speak a lot without actually saying much, don't you?" He asked after a moment. "I find it hard to believe that your skill in anything you put your mind to learning is small. But yes, I'd love to join you for dinner sometime." He smiled easily. "You've got my number, call me to let me know when you're thinking, yeah?"

"I shall check my diary this evening and call you tomorrow," Mycroft promised.


	2. Chapter 2

"Hello?" Greg's voice on the far end of the phone was tired, almost confrontational, and Mycroft almost reconsidered the intelligence behind waiting until the evening to make the phone call.

"Gregory, is now a bad time?"

"Not at all. Happens to be the perfect time to distract me from the paperwork your brother generates, actually." Greg's tone had softened.

"Good timing indeed," Mycroft agreed. "Would you be available this Friday evening?"

"Let me just check." A rustling came from the end of the line as Greg dug through his desk for his planner. "Free as a bird after six."

"In which case, may I request your arrival at half past seven?"

"Sure. Email me the address, I'll just lose it if I write it down. Anything I should bring?"

"Just yourself. Have you any allergies that I should be aware of?"

"Nope. I'll see you on Friday. Got to run, this paperwork won't do itself, no matter how hard I will it to."

"Paperwork fairies failing to carry out their duties?" Mycroft asked, surprised to gain an almost startled laugh in reply.

"Yeah, something like that. Bye."

"Until Friday," Mycroft replied, and the line went dead.

Greg was not entirely sure that he was turning up at Mycroft's home for a date. The majority of signs suggested that that was the case. But Mycroft was a Holmes, and if Sherlock was anything to go by, their ideas of social norms were not, well, the norm. He had made an effort worthy of a date, regardless. Shined his nice black shoes, ironed his good pair of black trousers and paired them with a pale green button up. The shirt was one of his favourites.

When Mycroft opened the door in a slightly toned down version of his usual suit (his jacket was off, but the waistcoat remained on. The long sleeves of the shirt were rolled up to his elbows) Greg was glad that he had made the effort and did not feel too under dressed.

They chatted amicably as they ate, Greg expressing his approval of the food. A creamy Carbonara sauce, served with pasta that Mycroft had made fresh. Greg, who sometimes got distracted when cooking bagged, dried pasta and ended up with an overly-watery mess, was impressed and made sure to make the fact very clear. When they were done they moved to the living room with their mugs of coffee. They sat on the sofa together in companionable quiet, occasionally murmuring a few words to each other.

The house was at the edge of the city, rather than its busy centre. A large window in the living room looked out over the small back garden. Beyond the back wall, silently and slowly being engulfed by the darkness of the night, spread a large park.

"A short walk, perhaps?" Mycroft suggested, following Greg's gaze out of the window. "It is supposed to aid digestion."

The walk continued their companionable, comfortable silence. Greg revelled in it. Work was so loud, required so much verbal communication, that he was particularly fond of those he could just be quiet with. John was good for it, always willing to meet for a beer or two, have a brief, fond complain about Sherlock, then sit quietly and watch whichever game was on at the time. Neither man followed any sport closely enough to make it worth the din which surrounded big matches, so they avoided the pubs at those times. There was something extra, however, in the silence he shared with Mycroft.

Their shoulders and arms bumped on occasion as they walked. Fingers brushing but never quite managing to link together. They stopped back on Mycroft's front doorstep, Greg planning to continue his walk home once the other man was inside.

"It was very pleasant to see you, Gregory," Mycroft started.

"Thanks for cooking for me. I'd offer to return the favour, but all I can really do well is risotto. And it'd never compare."

"Risotto sounds wonderful, on the contrary. I am sure that you underestimate your own skill. I am free next Saturday, or the following Thursday, should either suit." Greg knew that he was being offered an out, should he not wish to host. He could refuse both days; Mycroft would not attempt to schedule a third unless he could offer one himself.

"I can do Saturday, I'm only working the morning. Seven okay with you?"

"Seven would be perfect. Email me the address?"

"Like you don't already have it," Greg replied, grinning. "I'll send it to you anyway. Night Mycroft." Without allowing himself to chicken out Greg leant forward and pressed a very brief, very chaste kiss to Mycroft's lips. He spun on his heel, heading down the path to the road without waiting for a response. It left the ball entirely in Mycroft's court.

"Until Saturday, Gregory." Greg could not help but smile at the words which floated after him in the cool, May night air.

Saturday morning for Greg began with a body with no obvious cause of death in an alleyway. When, by the early afternoon, the forensic team had found suspicious amounts of nothing, Greg swallowed his pride and sent a text to Sherlock. As soon as he had a reply in the affirmative he sent Anderson off for an early lunch. He was going to be pressed for time in the evening, he did not need a Sherlock based headache to top it off.

Sherlock arrived and bounced around the room in his usual exuberant fashion. John trailed in behind him, and the look of gratitude that he shot in Greg's direction told the DI that Sherlock's boredom had been reaching unbearable levels in the week since he had last solved a case.

"Very good, this killer. Not only have they left nothing from the crime, they've left almost nothing from before it." Sherlock was as good as vibrating with glee at the puzzle. Greg glanced at his watch as he nodded, waiting for Sherlock to get to the point. The detective's demeanour changed immediately. "Am I keeping you, Lestrade?"

"Yes, actually. I was supposed to clock out nearly an hour ago, and I do have somewhere to be." Sherlock's focus shifted and Greg found himself at the centre of a familiar beam of attention.

"You have a date," Sherlock spat the final word. "Your cuffs still have detergent on them, from where you put a wash on this morning. Black trousers usually last you a half week, but these are different from the ones you were wearing yesterday when we saw you to pick up cold cases. There's a shopping list in your pocket. 'Arbo' is visible, probably the beginning of Arborio rice. You're making risotto, the only dish you feel you're competent at. Who is it?"

"None of your business," Greg replied, ignoring Sherlock's eye roll. He realised too late that Sherlock was right up in his space, a hand in his jacket pocket and on his phone. The small device was in Sherlock's hands, and Sherlock across the room, his thumbs flying over the keypad, before Greg could lunge after him and grab it back.

A furrow appeared in Sherlock's brow as he frowned. Greg's inbox was entirely free of incriminating texts.

"Sherlock, give me back my phone. You can't just-" Sherlock's face cleared in the way that it always did when he slotted the puzzle pieces into place. It was swiftly followed by a look that Greg almost missed but thought was possibly concern. Greg had seen the look on his face only once before, directed after John when he had been hurried off in after a case, his arm broken. It settled on a mixture of anger and disdain, a look that Greg was well familiar with.

"You would do well to abandon such foolishness," he snapped at Greg.

"You pitching a fit isn't going to change anything. We have a date, I intend to enjoy it. I rather hope that there will be further dates. We're both adults, Sherlock, we can look out for ourselves." In an instant the detective was in Lestrade's space again, slipping his phone back into his pocket and towering above him.

"Be cautious, Lestrade. Hurting my brother would likely have disastrous consequence." He stepped away, beckoning for John to follow him. "Clock off. I'll have something for you tomorrow."

"What's going on with Mycroft? Sherlock, what-?" John's voice faded off as he took the stairs behind Sherlock.

The delay meant that Greg was still cooking when Mycroft arrived. He had lost track of time while stirring the rice, and sworn loudly as the doorbell rang. "It's open!" He shouted, darting into his bedroom to change. He emerged moments later to find Mycroft carefully removing his shoes in the hallway. "Hey, sorry. Lost track of time a little. Work ran late."

"It did not keep you entirely, at least," Mycroft replied, handing Greg a bottle of white. "I have been reliably informed that this will suit a risotto."

"All wine is good wine, so long as it comes in a bottle and not a carton," Greg told him, leading him through to the kitchen. "Dinner will be about twenty minutes."

"This is a deplorable view to take of one's palette," Mycroft scolded, following Greg obediently.

"When you've been through Uni on the minimum amount of work possible you learn to take your alcohol as you can afford it. Quantity and affordability over quality." Greg returned to his cooking, stirring the risotto for a few moments before leaving it to simmer for a little longer. When he turned, Mycroft was watching him with undisguised horror. "Oh come on. You can't tell me you've never tried cheap booze."

"I believe that if one is planning to spend money on an alcoholic beverage, it may as well be one that will be enjoyed for the taste and quality," Mycroft replied. Greg snorted, shaking his head as he leant back against the counter.

"Someone never drank for the sake of getting drunk," he commented. "Not sure you'll ever understand the attraction of getting drunk for less than a tenner."

"Drunkenness is not a state that appeals to me," Mycroft agreed. "And I never found it necessary to purchase copious amounts of alcohol for a lower price."

"You only say that because you've never been drunk." Greg turned back to the stove, adding the last little bit of seasoning to it before stirring it and starting to spoon it onto plates. "We'll have to rectify that, I think."

"Planning to get me drunk so that I am more suggestible, Detective Inspector?" Mycroft asked, following Greg to the table and settling into his seat as a plate was set in front of him.

"Not in the slightest. I simply believe you missed out hugely as a teenager if you didn't try it at least once," Greg told him. "And I do notice that you haven't rejected the idea out of hand."

"I am not generally adverse to new experiences," Mycroft responded dryly. "And I believe such things are usually best tried when in trusted company."

They ate in relative quiet, their focus on their food and glasses of wine. Greg made coffee when they were finished eating, passing Mycroft a mug before turning to the fridge. Mycroft peered over the police officer's shoulder, the large coffee mug cradled carefully in his hands.

"I wasn't going to do pudding," Greg told him, pulling a box out of the fridge as he spoke. "But I couldn't resist." Within moments he had tipped the bright berries out of the box and into two bowls before covering them liberally with cream.

Despite a token protest from Mycroft about the proper place to eat a meal they ate their pudding in the lounge, settled on the sofa, leaning against the armrests with their feet brushing together in the middle.

Within moments, Greg had cream on his nose. Mycroft found this fact highly distracting from his own pudding. The policeman was apparently oblivious and continuing with his meal. He glanced up, pausing when he noticed Mycroft watching him.

"Something on my face?" Greg's tongue slipped out, probing quickly for any food leftover around his lips. Mycroft glanced away, swiping his tongue over his own lips.

"Your nose," he murmured, gesturing vaguely. Greg grinned, shifting closer to Mycroft.

"Get it for me?" He asked. Mycroft raised an eyebrow, ignoring the way his mouth dried as Greg came into his personal space. He tugged a handkerchief from where it was tucked into the pocket of his trousers, unfolding it and gently wiping the cream from the other man's nose. Greg's nose wrinkled, and he smiled as Mycroft pulled the hankie away, folding it carefully before slipping it back into his pocket. "Thanks."

"You are most welcome," Mycroft replied, finishing the last of his pudding and placing his bowl on the coffee table. Greg's followed it and they settled back into their seats.

"I believe that you owe me a story," Greg said, reclining into the sofa and considering Mycroft over the edge of his coffee mug. "Why is the mysterious man who runs the British government so interested in a small charity?"

"It is a cause that I believe in," Mycroft replied. "When I was a teenager, a good friend of mine lived maybe a ten minute walk away from our home. My parents did not approve of our friendship; she was not from the correct social standing, in their opinion, for me to socialise with. I used to climb out of my bedroom window, walk across to meet her at the field at the back of her garden. Some nights we would stay out there all night, talking about anything and everything." Mycroft paused, sipping the last of his coffee. "When we were sixteen, her father was killed in a violent attack. I waited in the field every night for a week, I did not know what had happened. She didn't come out, the home phone wasn't answered, I thought perhaps I had done something wrong." The silence stretched on, and Greg inched closer, laying a hand beside Mycroft's on the sofa. Their hands brushed, and Mycroft shifted his hand to lie over Greg's. "Her mother had a breakdown, shortly after the death. The three children were removed for their own safety. Once I was able to look them up, I did so. Her mother was retained in hospital for her mental issues, on her release she committed suicide. The three children were placed in a foster home together, and later adopted into three separate homes. There was no help for them, and nothing that I could do."

"Mycroft..." Greg lifted his free hand, starting to reach for the politician before pausing, unsure of his right to do so.

"She is doing well enough," Mycroft assured him. "Help at the time may have kept their family together. I believe that a charity which helps that to happen is a worthwhile one." Greg nodded, dropping his hand back to his side. "You have work in the morning. I should leave you to your rest."

"Oh. Okay, let me get your jacket for you." Greg stood, heading for the small coat and boot room in his hallway as Mycroft followed him.

When he shut the door and turned with the jacket in his hands, he found that Mycroft had stopped just behind him. The politician took the jacket, shrugging it on without leaving Greg's personal space. Mycroft lifted one had to Greg's face, gently cupping his chin as his other hand dropped to Greg's hip. Greg's mouth went dry, and he flicked his tongue over his lips, allowing the hand on his chin to tilt his head slightly.

Mycroft's breath caught as Greg leant into his touch, his gaze following the tongue which flicked out to wet the other man's lips. He leaned forward, feeling Greg surge towards him in the same moment. Their lips met, and Mycroft tightened his grip on Greg's hip as a hand slipped into his hair and another rested at the front of his shirt.

Mycroft gasped as the hand in his hair gripped gently. Greg's tongue flicked forwards briefly, cautiously, and Mycroft took the opportunity to meet it with his own and follow its retreat. He continued to follow as Greg leant back, his back hitting the door that he had just closed. They broke apart for a moment, both with their breathing elevated as they stayed close to each other. After a moment of respite Mycroft leant in again, pressing a closed mouth kiss to Greg's lips for a few long seconds before licking his way into the shorter man's mouth. Greg sighed into the kiss, almost moaning and fisting his hand in Mycroft's shirt.

"I should go," Mycroft muttered once they had separated again, his forehead pressed against Greg's. Greg let go of him, pushing gently, almost reluctantly.

"Go on, then, before it's any more difficult for me to let you leave." Mycroft huffed an almost silent laugh, pressing three quick, barely there kisses to Greg's lips before pulling away entirely.

"I shall see you again soon," Mycroft said, reaching for his umbrella, which was leaning beside the door.

"Absolutely," Greg agreed, still leaning against the door. "I'll call you when I have my shifts for next week, let you know when I'm free."

Mycroft inclined his head in agreement before opening the door and walking out into the night.


	3. Chapter 3

Greg stifled a yawn as he pressed his mobile to his ear, listening to it ring as he made his way up the steps to his flat. It was half past seven in the morning, and his night shift had just finished. They were a part of the job, but they were a killer on his sleeping pattern. Although they were almost always followed by a day off, it was not one that he could ever make use of for much other than sleeping.

The call rang through to the answer phone, and Greg kept the phone wedged between his ear and shoulder as the mechanical voice gave the instruction to leave a message.

"Hey Mycroft, guess this isn't a great time. Just wanted to let you know that I've got my shifts for next week. I'll email them to you. Let me know when you're free, okay?" He paused, unlocking the door to his flat and stepping inside before continuing. "Hopefully we'll work something out, see you soon." He hung up, slipped his phone back into his pocket and headed immediately for bed.

When he had not heard from Mycroft by the end of the week, Greg put it down to a busy work schedule and sent his shifts for the next week in another email. His own week had been a quiet one, but he knew well how a busy week could keep a person from getting back to people that they had made promises to. He had more than once had to apologise to his parents for not calling them for far too long.

By the end of the second week, he was not sure if he should be concerned or annoyed. Had the date ended differently he would have taken the hint to break off contact and given up on the potential relationship. As it was, the kiss had been promising, and Mycroft had said that they would see each other again soon. Greg did not think that a quick text to explain that he was busy was too much to ask, really.

By the end of the third week of no contact, Greg was well on his way to writing the whole experience off as a mistake and taking up Sally's offer to introduce him to a friend that he would get on with wonderfully.

He was standing at a crime scene when his phone rang, and he checked the caller ID before ducking out under the police tape and heading for his car. It would afford him some quiet and privacy. He accepted the call as he slid into the driver's seat, pressing the phone to his ear.

"Hello." He kept the greeting brief.

"Good afternoon, Gregory. Is now a bad time?" Mycroft's reply was level, and suggested no remorse for the lack of contact.

"I've got five minutes before I need to be back on my crime scene," Greg replied. "So make it quick."

"Are you free this evening?" Greg ran his free hand through his hair before peering out of his window and back towards the crime scene.

"I'm not going to get out of here before eight," he said. "I can be at yours by nine, or I have tomorrow off, if that suits you."

"I have to be in the office tomorrow, so this evening is preferable." Greg nodded against the phone, pausing when he remembered that Mycroft would not be able to see him.

"Sure. I'll let you know if I'm held up any later. See you this evening." He rung off before receiving a reply and rested his forehead against the steering wheel for a moment. Pulling himself together he slipped his phone back into his pocket, climbed out of his car, and headed back towards the police tape to start wrapping up the scene.

Greg arrived at Mycroft's house just before nine o'clock that evening. The door opened as soon as he knocked, and Mycroft showed him through to the lounge before offering him a cup of tea. Greg accepted, and they sat in silence for a few long moments with the steaming drinks in their hands.

"Something you wanted to talk about?" Greg asked eventually, placing his half finished drink aside. Mycroft nodded absently, sipping at his own tea for a moment longer before replying.

"I said that I would see you again soon. I was simply suggesting a meeting at the soonest possible point." Mycroft told him. Greg stared openly at him, crossing his arm and leaning back against the sofa.

"It's been three weeks," Greg pointed out. "Couldn't you have texted or something? Just to let me know that you were busy?"

"I do not text, Gregory. I said that we would make plans when we were both next free." Mycroft seemed unruffled by the point that Greg had made.

"Well you're going to have to learn to. You can't just drop off the face of the Earth for three weeks. I thought you weren't interested," Greg told him, arms still crossed. Something unrecognisable flicked over the politician[']s face, and Greg forced himself not to comment on it. Whatever the emotion was, it had been a negative one, and annoyed though he was he did not want the other man upset.

"I did not intend to send such a message," Mycroft said, his posture shifting very slightly. Greg sighed, moving himself along the sofa and reaching for the other man. Mycroft shifted a little closer to him, taking his hand and letting Greg squeeze gently.

"We'll work on communication, yeah?" Greg asked, smiling when Mycroft nodded. "Just a text or call to say you'll be out of contact for a week or three, if you're that busy."

"I shall ensure that I do so in future," Mycroft replied.

"Thank you." Greg stifled a yawn against the back of his hand. "I'd better go. You've got work tomorrow, and I'm shattered." Mycroft nodded again, following Greg to the front door. "See you again soon, yeah? Actually soon this time?"

"Certainly," Mycroft agreed.

It was less than a week before Greg heard from Mycroft again. He was doing paperwork when the call came in, and answered it gratefully.

"Afternoon."

"Good afternoon, Gregory."

"You have an uncanny ability to call just as I'm about to start paperwork. I like it, I think I might keep you," Greg told him, leaning back in his desk chair.

"I shall assume that now is a good time, then," Mycroft replied. "Do you know when your next day off will be?"

"Thursday," Greg replied immediately. "I have Wednesday afternoon off, and all of Thursday."

"Would you consider meeting me for lunch on Thursday? I would like to make up for the misunderstanding over my work schedule for the past few weeks." Greg smiled into his phone, pulling his diary towards him and flicking to the date.

"Sure. Time and place?" Greg uncapped a pen as he waited for a reply, tapping it absently against the open page.

"Half past twelve, I shall meet you at your flat," Mycroft told him.

"Sounds good. See you on Thursday."

"Until Thursday," Mycroft agreed.

The doorbell rang fifteen minutes early, and Greg answered it with his shirt half buttoned, waving Mycroft inside as soon as the door was open. "You'll have to wait a minute, I'm not quite ready. I'll be out in a moment, okay?"

"Take your time," Mycroft told him, settling at one of the kitchen chairs while he waited for Greg to return.

"Teach you to show up early," Greg called over his shoulder as he headed back towards his room.

"Finding you half dressed is not so off putting an outcome as you seem to believe," Mycroft told him. Greg chuckled as he shut the bedroom door behind him.

Once Greg was finished changing and made his way back into the kitchen. Mycroft was looking around with mild interest, and Greg avoided thinking about what the politician had probably spent his time working out.

"So, where are we headed?" Greg asked, slipping his wallet and phone into his pockets while he waited for a reply.

"That, Gregory, would be telling," Mycroft replied. Greg raised an eyebrow, following Mycroft to the front door and locking it behind them once they were outside.

"You know, if you're whisking me off to murder me and hide the body, Sherlock will work it out," Greg said conversationally as he climbed into the passenger seat of the car which Mycroft led him to. It was nothing like the large, black cars which Greg had seen him arrive at crime scenes in. A nondescript, silver five door was parked against the pavement.

"Were that my intention, I would be careful enough that Sherlock would never work it out," Mycroft replied, pulling away from the curb and into the slow flow of afternoon traffic. "If he were to do so, I would never be convicted."

"Yeah, the correct answer was, 'I'm not going to kidnap and murder you, Gregory.'" Greg told him. "Not, 'Don't worry, I'd never be caught.'" Mycroft inclined his head with a smile, and Greg laughed.

They passed the rest of the drive quietly, Greg keeping an eye out of the window and trying to work out where they were going. Towards the centre of London was all that he could garner from their route, and when they stopped it was in an area that Greg did not recognise. He had never had a case there, and it was not the sort of area that he had ever visited otherwise. The road was a quiet one, and the small car looked out of place parked amongst those which were clearly far more expensive.

The comparative worth of a car did not seem to bother Mycroft, who had climbed out and popped open the boot. Greg followed him to the back of the vehicle, leaning against the side of the car as he peered around to see what Mycroft was looking for.

"I know that there's no way you're leaning against my car, Gregory," Mycroft said without looking up. Greg immediately leant away from it, taking his weight back onto his own legs.

"Course not, wouldn't dream of it," Greg replied. "Is that a picnic basket?"

"No, it is in fact a cleverly disguised holder for a large number of deadly weapons," Mycroft muttered. "It can also double as a carrier for kittens, or other small fluffy creatures."

"I'm allergic to cats, and deadly weapons." Greg smiled as Mycroft did nothing more than raise an eyebrow in reply, lifting the picnic basket from the boot. "Want me to carry anything?" A blanket was tossed at his face, and he shook his head before following Mycroft into a nearby building and towards the lift.

The lift did not stop at the top floor of the building, but rather went all the way to the roof. Greg blinked as they stepped out into the sunshine, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the sudden change in light. The building was the tallest in the immediate area, and unlike the shaded streets below was in full sunlight. Once his eyes had adjusted he lowered his hand, glancing first at Mycroft, who stood just in front of him, then around at the rooftop. He was well acquainted with the rooftops of London, a disproportionate amount of crime seemed to take place on them. This one, however, was noticeably devoid of a corpse.

The ground under his feet, as soon as he took a step out of the lift, was not the concrete that he was expecting, but rather the soft, springiness of mossy grass.

"Who puts a garden on a roof?" Greg asked, immediately aware that it probably wasn't the best thing to say in the situation.

"It's an otherwise unutilised space," Mycroft told him, stepping away and moving further into the garden.

"I didn't know there were places like this in London," Greg said, following Mycroft over the grass. Past the small lawn the grass gave way to paved paths, and small patches of grass were nestled between large flowerbeds full of shrubs and bright flowers. At a quick glance Greg could identify rose bushes, pansies and snap dragons, as well as plenty that he could not name.

"When I first moved into the city, I worked in this building," Mycroft started, taking the blanket from Greg and spreading it across the patch of grass that he had led them to. "They installed this garden six months after I started, and I took lunch up here whenever it was dry enough to do so."

They settled on the blanket, a little space between them as they sat side by side. Mycroft reached for the basket, flicking open the catch and opening the lid.

"If there are actually kittens in there I'm going to call the RSPCA on you," Greg told him, and Mycroft snorted.

"I assure you, Gregory, there is nothing in here but our lunch." Mycroft pushed the basket between them, gesturing for Greg to look inside. It was, as he had said, filled with nothing other than food, crockery and a large bottle of sparkling water.

Greg tucked into a tuna wrap immediately, smiling his thanks when Mycroft handed him a glass of the water.

"It's lovely up here," Greg commented, leaning back and stretching his arms out behind him to support his weight. "Thanks for bringing me."

"I am glad that you like it." Mycroft was packing away what remained of the food and used crockery. Greg was feeling full and content, and he watched Mycroft shut the basket and do up the clasp with a smile. The sun was beating down, with a pleasant breeze to take the edge off of the heat. "I feared that I had upset you, with my lack of contact."

"Yeah, a little," Greg agreed, sitting up and shifting across the blanket. "I get that work gets busy, I do. But an email or something to say you're not going to be available is all I need."

Mycroft nodded, his gaze focused somewhere out over the roofs of nearby buildings, rather than on Greg.

"Stop worrying about it, okay? We're good, it's fine." Greg reached out, cupping Mycroft's cheek with one hand and guiding him around before tugging him in for a kiss. Mycroft relaxed into the it slowly, letting Greg lead without complaint. When the kiss broke, Greg rested their foreheads together, grinning. "We're fine?" he asked, clearly waiting for Mycroft to confirm it.

"Yes, certainly," Mycroft agreed, pushing forward to reconnect their lips.


	4. Chapter 4

Couple of notes here, because my Beta pointed out that people may not know what a couple of the things I mention are.

ABH stands for 'Actual Bodily Harm', which is a criminal offence and I think pretty self explanatory. An airing cupboard is a warm room in a house (ours has our boiler in it, which is what makes it so warm) where clothes are kept after they're washed to keep them warm and dry (and some sort of magic works to make towels particularly fluffy). It's also the best place to keep pyjamas, because they come out all warm and toasty.

* * *

Greg did not look up as the door to his office opened, instead keeping his gaze on his computer screen. There was a backlog of nearly a hundred emails in his inbox, and had been using the opportunity of the quiet afternoon to sort through them. He had been snappish all morning, and knew that the only person who would brave his office was Sally.

"If it's anything other than a fresh mug of coffee, I don't want to hear about it," he told her, skimming over an email and deleting it without bothering to reply.

"We've got a new case," Sally replied, ignoring his comment. "Scene's over at the Thames."

Greg sighed, running a hand through his hair before reaching to turn off his computer. "Fine, let's go then. What're we looking at?" he asked, standing from his chair and reaching for his jacket.

"I'll tell you on the drive over," Sally said, holding the door open for him. Greg nodded, shrugging his coat on as he left the room.

When Greg arrived at the crime scene with Sally, it was only years of experiences with the gruesome things that human beings could do to each other that kept him from blanching. The scene was messy. Blood spatter spread up the wall and onto the ceiling, and the corpse on the floor was nearly beheaded. They stood to the side of the room as forensics went over it (not Anderson, Greg silently thanked his luck; he did not need the stormy silence between the forensic tech and Sally since their latest breakup), watching the familiar processes taking place before them.

"Violent attack," Sally said. "Explosive. Probably wasn't preplanned."

"Not cleaned up, either," Greg agreed. "Once we get an ID we'll look for a husband or boyfriend. Or an ex." Sally nodded.

It took three hours for the scene to be fully processed, the body to be identified and a suspect name to come up – a boyfriend with a past of carrying weapons and ABH. Prints at the scene, in the blood, matched those collected from their suspect in prior arrests.

They found him at his parent's house, barely five minutes away, making use of it being empty while his parents were on holiday. By the time they made it through the front door he was already gone out of the back, and Greg sent Sally for the car before sprinting after the man.

The streets of London were familiar, and Greg kept his team up to date with his heading as he followed the man through back streets and down quiet roads and pathways. He checked in with Sally as the chase reached the side of the Thames before turning his attention fully back to the man sprinting away from him.

The suspect stumbled, and Greg took the opportunity to throw himself forward, catching the suspect off balance and grappling with him in an attempt to stop him from running again. He was successful in preventing any more running, though the struggle was not entirely in his favour. Greg glanced around as blue lights caught the corner of his vision and caught sight of Sally climbing out of a patrol car in the moment before the struggle turned entirely against him. One moment he was standing at the side of the river, trying to knock the suspect to the ground, the next he was plunging into the water.

When he hauled himself out of the water, sputtering and shivering, Sally had the suspect on the ground in cuffs. Greg was too busy thanking his luck that he had managed to avoid swallowing any of the river water to pay much attention as the suspect was bundled into the back of the a car and driven off.

"You need to get warmed up," she told him, using the hand on his shoulder to lead him back towards their police car. They had ended up not far from where they had started, and it took only a couple of minutes to arrive at the vehicle. Greg shrugged off his sodden jacket as they arrived, still shivering in the cold evening air. They kept a shock blanket in the back and Greg accepted it from Sally with a nod of thanks before climbing into the passenger seat of the car. "Do you want me to take you to the hospital, get you checked over?" Sally asked. Greg shook his head, running a hand over his face.

"I just want to go home, get clean and go to bed," he told her, curling into the blanket a little more. Sally nodded before replying hesitantly.

"Okay, I'll take you home. So long as you promise to get straight to the doctor if you feel ill."

"Yes Mum," Greg muttered, slumping back into his seat. As the car pulled away he reached down into the side pocket of the car, pulling out the mobile phone he had left there. He silently thanked his luck that he had accidentally left it behind, otherwise it would have joined him in the Thames and been ruined.

Greg flicked his phone on with a well practised movement, clicking through when the screen informed him that there were two missed calls from Mycroft, and answer phone messages.

"Fuck," he muttered, waving away Sally's worried look as he pressed the phone to his ear to listen to the messages.

"Message received today at seven fifteen PM: Good evening, Gregory. It would appear that you have been delayed somewhat in arriving at our meeting place. I would appreciate if you were to call me when you have a moment to do so." Greg swore under his breath in the pause between one message and the next. "Message received today at eight three PM: I am afraid that I have had to stop waiting for you. I do hope that you are alright, Gregory. Do call to let me know that you are unharmed."

Greg kept up a mantra of quiet swearing as he scrolled through the contacts in his phone. Sally cast him a sidelong glance as he pressed the phone to his ear.

"Forget something?" she asked.

"A date," Greg replied, listening to the ring on the far end of the phone. Sally's sympathetic wince did not help. His shoulders sagged in relief as the phone was picked up at the far end.

"Hello?" Mycroft's voice was groggy, and Greg glanced at the dashboard clock, realising that it was rather later than he had thought.

"Hey. I owe you an apology." Greg rubbed the back of his neck.

"Gregory, are you unharmed? I have been quite concerned," Mycroft replied, sounding rather more awake.

"I'm fine," Greg insisted, despite the fact that his teeth were chattering. "Work overran, and I left my phone in the car. I'm so sorry, really."

"You're shivering." The concern in Mycroft's voice was palpable. "Did something happen at work?"

"Just a quick swim in the Thames. I'm headed home to get warm and dry now," Greg assured him. The car pulled up outside of his block of flats and he nodded his thanks to Sally before climbing out of the car. He kept the mobile pressed to his ear as he dug in his pocket for his keys.

"So long as you are sure that you are unharmed." Mycroft sounded unsure and Greg smiled as he slipped the key into the lock.

"I'm good, honest. Just need a hot shower and a good night's sleep, don't worry about me." He flicked the lights on as he made his way through the flat and towards the bathroom before he dripped on the carpet too much.

"A hot shower is not the way to warm yourself up, you'll cause yourself damage," Mycroft replied immediately. "Nor should you be alone. Is there anyone there who can keep an eye on you, should things take a turn?"

"I will be fine, Mycroft. I can get myself warm, honestly." Greg sighed, peeling off his sodden trousers and dropping them into the sink. The entire clothing set would have to be thrown away; nothing got the smell of Thames water out of fabric.

"Gregory, the Thames is cold, and the wind this evening will not have helped. You should be at a hospital, and I am surprised that your team were willing to leave you alone. At the very least you should have someone with you who knows how to make sure that you do not suffer from hypothermia." Greg shut his eyes, breathing deeply through his nose for a moment.

"Fine, what do you suggest? I happen to live alone, and I barely know my neighbours well enough to say hello in the morning, let alone ask them to keep an eye on my health," Greg snapped, immediately regretting it. "Sorry, I'm just cold and tired."

"I suggest that you get yourself out of your wet clothes and gently dry yourself off. Get into warm pyjamas, and under at least your duvet, extra blankets would be preferable. I will be with you in fifteen minutes to sort out everything else." Greg stood silently in the bathroom for a moment, pulling the phone away from his ear and staring at it.

"You don't have to-" he started, moving the device back to his ear.

"Someone should be there to make sure you are well," Mycroft cut over him. "I shall be there in fifteen minutes. See you soon." The line went dead and Greg stared at the phone for a few moments longer before shaking his head. Putting the phone out of the way he pulled his shirt off over his head and reached for a towel, gently patting the remaining damp off of his skin.

Ten minutes later, Greg slipped into clean pyjamas, shivering almost too much to do the buttons up on the shirt. He wrapped his duvet around himself before heading to the airing cupboard. He dug through to the back and pulled out the two thick blankets that he kept there. He had them tucked under one arm, awkwardly holding the duvet around him with his other hand, when a knock came at the door. He dropped the blankets onto the sofa and shuffled across to open it.

Mycroft stood on the other side, looking as immaculate as ever in a suit. Greg was suddenly very aware of the fact that he looked exhausted, slightly bedraggled and no doubt still stank of the Thames. He tried to control the chattering of his teeth as he smiled at the other man, stepping back to let the politician into his home. Mycroft smiled briefly in reply before running his gaze quickly up and down Greg's figure, taking hold of his shoulder and leading him back into the flat.

"You really didn't have to, you know," Greg muttered, letting himself be led across the small sitting room and to the sofa. He sat down obediently at the gentle pressure on his shoulder, pulling his feet up onto the sofa and curling further into his duvet.

"I know," Mycroft replied, shaking out the blankets and carefully arranging them on top of the duvet. "But it is no hardship to be here. Try to keep shivering, it will do you good." Greg tugged at the duvet for a moment before settling. "Do you have anything to cover your head with?" Greg shifted one of the blankets around, wrapping it over his head and around his shoulders as he watched Mycroft move around the flat. The politician slipped off his jacket and hung it by the door before heading through to the kitchen. Greg tried to follow the movement, but gave up to avoid straining his neck.

Mycroft returned after a few minutes carrying two large mugs. He pressed one into Greg's hands and the DI took a sip, closing his eyes and humming at the warmth.

"This isn't a drink I had in my cupboards," he commented as Mycroft settled carefully on the sofa beside him. "What is it?"

"Fruit tea with honey to sweeten," Mycroft said, leaning forward to undo his shoes and slip them off. "You only had coffee, and you should avoid caffeine." Greg nodded, keeping his focus in his mug and quietly making his way through the remainder of his tea. Ripples appeared in the liquid as he shivered, though not enough to spill any of the drink.

Once the mug was empty Greg let Mycroft take it from his unresisting grip and whisk it away to the kitchen. He yawned as Mycroft stepped back into the room, suddenly aware of quite how tired he was. Mycroft settled on the sofa, lifting the duvet and blankets before shifting to sit beside Greg. Each of his movements was slow, Greg assumed to give him enough time to object should he wish to.

With Mycroft pressed up against his side Greg shut his eyes, letting his head fall onto the other man's shoulder and sighing. An arm was wrapped carefully around his shoulders and Mycroft pressed a hand first to his forehead, then against his hands, checking his temperature.

"You appear to have warmed up acceptably, how do you feel?" Mycroft asked. Greg shifted, tugging the duvet a little closer to himself and yawning before managing to reply.

"Warmer," he said. "Still tired, though." Mycroft nodded, standing carefully and pulling Greg up with him, keeping the policeman wrapped in the duvet as he did so. "I shall leave you to rest, you should feel fine in the morning."

Greg allowed himself to be led through the living room and into his bedroom. He did not resist as Mycroft unwrapped the covers from around him and gestured for him to lie down on the mattress. Nor did he complain when the duvet was draped over him and the lights in the room flicked off. He was mostly asleep as Mycroft carefully folded the blankets and laid them across the end of the bed.

"'Night Mycroft," Greg muttered as his eyes fell closed. Mycroft smiled, waiting for Greg's breathing to even out and slow before leaning over a pressing a very light kiss to the other man's forehead.

"Goodnight, Gregory," he muttered in reply, straightening up and leaving the bedroom. After a moment's pause he shut the door behind him, then headed into the kitchen to write a brief note. Leaving it on the table, he walked out of the small flat and carefully pulled the front door closed behind him, listening to make sure that the lock caught.


	5. Chapter 5

Rolling over, Greg groaned at the ache in his legs, curling in on himself. He did his best to stay fit, but the chase the previous day had taken it out of him. He felt grimy, the smell of the Thames still clinging to his skin. He needed a shower, long enough and hot enough to empty the hot water boiler for his flat.

Climbing out of bed, he headed for the bathroom, snagging a towel from the airing cupboard on his way and sliding the blankets from the previous evening back into their spot

He scanned the sheet of paper on the kitchen table as he put together a bowl of porridge for breakfast. It was a brief note, asking that he call Mycroft when he was able to do so. He tapped the number into his land line, setting it onto speaker as he returned to stirring his meal.

"Good morning, Gregory."

"Morning," Greg replied cheerfully, smiling at the phone on the counter top.

"You are feeling better this morning." It was a statement, rather than a question, and Greg shook his head, still grinning.

"Yeah, right as rain. Thanks, for coming by last night." He spooned the porridge out into a bowl, slicing banana to add to the top. "Thought I might ask if you were free this evening. I can be rather a better host than I was yesterday."

A light chuckle came from the other end of the phone before Mycroft replied, "I am indeed free this evening. What time shall I arrive?"

"Does half seven work for you?" Greg perched on the counter. "I'll cook."

"Certainly. Shall I bring anything?"

"Just yourself. Maybe something more casual than a suit, if you own it," Greg suggested. "See you this evening."

"Do take care of yourself, Gregory. No more unplanned swims." Greg chuckled through the dial tone, placing the phone back onto its stand before finishing off his breakfast.

Greg started the prep for dinner as soon as he had washed up from breakfast. He rarely used the slow cooker which his parents had bought him, it took far too much preparation and could not simply be left for the day while he was out, as he was never sure that he would be back in time from work. But as he layered in stock, vegetables, rice, chicken and lemon, he was glad of the option to do get the main part of the work done in advance. It would survive the half hour it would take him to pop to the shops down the road to buy the few bits that he still needed for the evening.

Mycroft arrived ten minutes early, and Greg opened the door with a grin. "Hoping to catch me half dressed again, were you?" he asked, stepping back to allow the politician to step into the flat.

"It would not have been an unwanted result," Mycroft replied, waiting for Greg to close the door before moving in for a brief kiss. Greg caught him around the waist, taking the opportunity to deepen the kiss for a few long seconds.

"Dinner's nearly ready," Greg told Mycroft when they parted. "Come on."

Mycroft followed him through to the kitchen, settling at the table as he watched Greg move around the room. The DI pulled plates down from the cupboard, turning his back to Mycroft to serve the chicken and rice out of the slow cooker and arrange it on the plate. The politician allowed his gaze to wander, following the relaxed line of Greg's shoulders, down his back and lingering for a few moments on his arse. Greg turned with the plates in his hands, raising an amused eyebrow as he realised where Mycroft was looking.

"Lemon chicken with rice and veg," Greg said, placing the two plates between the sets of cutlery on the table. "There's more if you want it."

"I thought you said the only thing you could cook was risotto," Mycroft commented as he scraped up the last of his rice. "I believe you have been deceiving me, Gregory."

"Well, that's the only slightly impressive thing I can cook," Greg replied, reaching for Mycroft's plate and standing to place them both into the dish washer.

"I rather beg to differ," Mycroft replied, and Greg turned to face him. "That was lovely, thank you."

"You're welcome. I'll join you in the lounge in a moment."

Mycroft was settled on the sofa when Greg stepped into the room, and Greg nudged him across before sitting beside him. He pressed a glass into Mycroft's hand, grinning when the politician raised an eyebrow in confusion.

"Keeping a promise," he explained, reaching for a bottle on the coffee table. "Cheap wine, I did say I'd show you the appeal." Mycroft looked sceptical. Greg unscrewed the lid and tipped the bottle over first Mycroft's glass, then his own. "Come on, it's not that bad. And by the end of the first couple of glasses, it won't bother you at all. 'Course, at Uni, we started with vodka shots, so we didn't care at all by the time we got to the wine."

"Is that a plastic bottle?" Mycroft asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yup. Saves some money, not paying for glass," Greg replied with a wink, sipping from his glass and trying not to grimace at the taste. "Come on, Mycroft, try it the once. If you really can't face it, I'll go find the vodka."

By the time they were a bottle and a half in, neither man was particularly bothered by the taste of the wine. They had gradually shifted closer together on the sofa, chatting and laughing as they went. Greg turned to look at Mycroft, and found himself caught in a rather intense gaze. Without pause he leant forwards into a kiss, wrapping a hand around the back of Mycroft's neck to hold him close. Mycroft's mouth opened with little prompting, and Greg let himself get lost in a lazy snog that tasted of chicken and lemon and wine.

He pushed Mycroft's jacket off of his shoulders with his free hand, slipping the hand on his neck up into his hair as he did so. When they parted Greg pushed the jacket out of the way entirely, shifting to properly face Mycroft.

"Do you actually own anything that isn't a suit?" Greg asked, interspersing the question with kisses trailed down Mycroft's neck. The politician tilted his head to extend the area which Greg could reach, considering the question at the same time.

"My wardrobe does contain jeans and t-shirts," he admitted, gasping as Greg nipped at the skin he had been kissing.

"Mmm, I'm going to have to see some of those," Greg muttered. Mycroft nodded, rather too breathless to reply, before twisting his head to catch the DI's lips again.

They shifted slowly until Greg got frustrated, disconnecting their lips once again so that he could lie along the sofa and tug Mycroft down on top of him. Mycroft settled immediately, nosing and kissing across Greg's cheek and down to his neck. He stilled when Greg reached for his belt, and Greg stopped plucking at the buckle.

"This okay?" he asked.

"Certainly," Mycroft replied, his hips twitching forward towards Greg's hands before he forced them still again.

"Good." Greg returned his focus to the belt buckle, slipping his hand inside as soon as he managed to get it undone. Mycroft groaned above him, pressing his face into Greg's neck. "You clean?" Greg forced himself to ask, rubbing gently at the outside of Mycroft's boxers. Mycroft nodded against his neck.

"Work insists on full health check ups every three months. My last was two weeks ago." It was enough for Greg, and he eased Mycroft's trousers down his thighs before running his hands up over the other man's arse, pushing his pants towards his trousers on the way back down. Mycroft pressed his hips down with another moan, before his hand was at Greg's fly, popping the button of his jeans, pushing the denim down off of his hips and taking his underwear with it.

With trousers and pants out of the way, Greg gasped at the feeling of skin on skin as Mycroft moved their hips back together. He tugged Mycroft back into an open mouthed kiss, whimpering unashamedly as Mycroft worked a hand between them and caught both of their cocks, precome easing the slide of his hand.

It did not take long for Greg to arch upwards, coming hard into Mycroft's hand and across both of their stomachs. Mycroft followed him a few moments later, shuddering almost silently through his orgasm and collapsing against Greg's chest, nuzzling contently into his neck. After a few moments he mumbled something, and Greg wrapped an arm around his shoulders, pressing his lips to the top of Mycroft's head.

"What?"

"I said, I'm sorry," Mycroft repeated, turning his head so that he could be heard. "I'm afraid I've rather ruined your shirt." Greg blinked owlishly at him for a moment before laughing, tugging Mycroft up for a kiss.

"Sorry he says," he muttered, shaking his head. "Shirts can be washed, you know. Or replaced."


End file.
